Project Insanity
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: Somewhere along the line, between the waking world and dreams, it's easy to lose yourself. But at least he finds a friend or two on the way. This is an AU heavily inspired by Fight Club, but altered very much. Rated M for future violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:**I do not own these characters, and this is a story line already in existence(Fight Club is an excellent book and movie, I promise). Though I have altered the story line greatly, so I suppose this would be considered an AU heavily inspired by Fight Club. This is actually one of the things I've written that I am most proud of, so I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you to all of you who review, or even just like the things I write. I'm sorry I rarely respond, blame it on the fact that I am terribly scatterbrained. I really do appreciate your kind words and praise. This is rated M for dark themes, brief mentions of abuse, cursing, and a few other things. This chapter is relatively tame. I'd like to give a special thank you to Lueurdelaube, Marshofsleep, and Twin Lupis for helping me get through this and giving me so much feedback. I probably would not have gotten the courage to post this without the encouragement. OKAY. Onward to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Back when I used to sleep, there was this place I would go in my dreams. Just this dark pool, thick like molasses. In the dream, I walk along the surface, and it changes under my bare feet, morphing into opaque black glass, unidentifiable liquid sloshing between my toes.

It's warm.

Walls I can't see pulse like a stuttering heartbeat around me.

It reeks of pennies and dread.

Then fingers break the surface of the black waves, and I grab on, pull at them as hard as I can, because this place is strange, but I can only imagine it gets stranger the deeper you go. Breathing this sticky air is like inhaling storm clouds, electrically charged and suffocating, choking me in my own fear, drowning me in it while the person attached to those fingers, an innocent for all i know, is sinking with me, because of me.

I wake up and I never know who the owner of those ink-stained fingers are, but I wish I did, 'cause I could find them one day and tell them to run, get away before I pull you in too deep, save yourself, don't let me destroy you.

It's been weeks since I've dreamed. I would be thankful, except the dreams stopped when my sleep stopped, and now everything just blends, everything is so far away, like I'm looking through the wrong end of binoculars.

I went and saw Doc about it, but he's useless. Frank wants to psychoanalyze me, cut me open and see how I operate. I just want some fucking Ambien. He got pissy when I said so. I have to exercise more, he tells me. Maybe I'll start with a good old fashioned beat down, crush his smug face in and sleep for a week.

But no. Chances are he's got a scalpel on him at all times. Guess I'll just use the treadmill I hang my dry cleaning from. No scars, no jail time, money well spent. I_knew_ I would need that thing at some point.

My boss calls me 8 am sharp on my Sunday off. I don't complain, I never went to sleep so what does it really matter?

He tells me in that perpetually cool, calm voice of his that we have a situation, and I can vaguely remember a time in my life when I would have shut him down, told him that no, _we _have no situations on _my_ Sundays off.

Now apparently a restaurant Bossman had invested in heavily has a roach infestation, and it's my job to make sure this never becomes a well-known fact.

Yeah, I got it boss, call the usual guy for cleanup, pay off the patrons who got crunchy little treats in their super special, vegetarian, egg white only omelettes, make sure no one goes to the paper, yadda yadda, I've been through this a thousand times.

Protect the investment, he tells me in his super serious voice, and thank God or whoever that I'm too tired to mock this nitpicking bastard.

This situation calls for a clean, crisp blue dress shirt, silver tie, black slacks, belt and shoes. Neutral tones, Bossman taught me early on, keep people calm. Never wear red when you want someone to relax, the colour is agitating. He looked directly into my eyes as he said this, like a challenge, his own golden eyes glittering with malice and glee as he watched me swallow down and choke on my battered pride.

Go back to music school, where they called you only by your last name to watch you squirm, when my professor informed me that I really ought to give up the idea of becoming a famous composer, that the things I created were 'Scary' and 'Unsettling'. I told him to go fuck himself, he's a bitch for not being able to handle something real, something raw and truthful. I told him,

"I am your repressed thoughts asshole. You can shove me into the back of your mind, but I'll still always be there to get to you when your guard is down."

The dean of the school, when informed of this exchange between the dear old professor and me? He didn't understand, didn't get that I was being metaphorical, poetic even.

Expulsion was the obvious solution.

Since that time, I've made a point of toning it down, lying to others to preserve their fragile psyches. I'm the monster under the bed posing in hardly human skin. My father told me this when I was five years old, just after I played for him my first song.

I've learned normalcy. I go to work, give it my best, come home to my stylishly furnished apartment, make dinner in my miniature kitchen, go through all the motions. Anyone who looks sees an average Joe.

Just what I've always wanted.

Who cares about becoming something great? Such a hassle. I have all I need right in my little home. Perfect contentment.

I haven't slept in three weeks.

Now, I discovered the bane of my existence at a meeting for people who were raised in emotionally abusive households. She didn't say a damn word until week five, after some chick with the name tag labeled as 'Liz' spoke about raising her little sister while their mother went out to get high and fucked every night. 'Liz' said their mom would come home around four in the morning, lipstick all messy and hair ratty, missing some clothing, and promptly tell Liz she had to do a better job, how useless she was, how disappointed she was in Liz.

Liz didn't cry. Liz was stony faced as she spoke to all of us, far too adjusted to her reality to bat an eye at something like that.

Maka Albarn though?

She was not adjusted at all.

With her big, green eyes glittering with tears, she said just one word, choked it out so quietly I hardly even knew she spit out anything even resembling human language.

"Unfair.."

In that moment my heart broke for her. Because life is unfair, and if she's been coming to these meetings, she should have been well aware of that by now.

After the meeting was over, and her tears all dry, I introduced myself, as a favor to her, I thought. Maybe I could break the truth of the world to her gently? Help her come to terms gradually, even save her. Looking back, it's kind of ironic.

"Lucas, huh?" she asked me. I flinched, 'cause It sounded so foreign when she said it, like she knew I was a liar before I even walked in the door of that old church basement.

"I saw you at Starbucks a few times. Once you were Dave. Another time you were Alexander… A different day, you were Wes, I think?" She smiled a little, a smile tinged with pity. I told her, it's tough to accept who you are when you know your existence is essentially meaningless.

And she went cold. Her glare froze my heart in my chest.

When she spoke, it was with a kind of surety that I'm still angry at myself for coveting. No one I ever met possessed something like that, and I'm still sure I never could.

"Death would be the easy way out. You just have to live long enough to figure out what your purpose is."

On an old receipt she scribbled something out so quickly I couldn't even see, and tucked it in my shirt pocket.

"If you ever need to talk,'Lucas'," she said, and left me with such an ache in my chest, I was out of breath. When I went home and got undressed, I finally pulled the receipt out of my pocket. It was from the bookstore downtown and alarmingly long, and on the back in messy cursive was her name and number.

After I studied the list of books on her little note for an hour, I fell asleep for the first time in a few days.

I slept until three in the afternoon, missed eight calls from Bossman, but God, it was glorious.

She stopped going to meetings after that though. I had her number memorized, but lacked the courage to dial.

Sleep escaped me since the moment my brain realized _i've been abandoned._

Again.


	2. Ash in My Mouth, Tears in Her Eyes

Note: I do not own Soul Eater, or Fight Club, but I do love both immensely, and so here is the result. I'd like to once again thank Lueurdelaube, Marshofsleep, and Twin Lupus for looking this over and helping me work out some kinks. Thank you all for the help and encouragement. This chapter contains some violence and foul language. If you're not cool with that, please look no further. Otherwise, enjoy!

* * *

Trying to find God in the empty chapel pews, this is where Damon found me, that twitching mess of me, four weeks gone by without sleep and I'm praying for that stint to end. His steps are loud and even, echoing, like the ticking of a metronome. I can hear the leather of his pants creak and protest as he sits down beside me and casually whispers in my ear

"You don't need God, or his approval."

When it comes to insomnia, you'll believe just about anything when it's said in the right tone of voice.

The one person who brought me sleep is somewhere I can't find and I just don't see the point in searching for God anymore when I know who gave me peace. Maybe she was an angel?

I think about her in the past tense and it scares the shit out of me. I want her back in the present again. She was so much more tangible that way, so real, something to have faith in.

But it feels like she's gone now. Gotta have faith in something, right?

This is how Damon and I became friends.

Or something of that sort.

* * *

Now, how I came to live with Damon could almost be considered a funny story, if you consider two pyro chicks setting all my belongings on fire while I was off cleaning up someone else's mess amusing. If you do consider it amusing, you're a fucking sadist, but I can respect the honesty. The people of my past always seemed to have trouble with that one.

Honesty, I mean.

Damon was always lurking in this hole in the wall jazz club, drinking gin and swaying unsteadily, snapping offbeat. I thought about calling Maka, but what could I say? Hey I know it's been weeks and we only really spoke once but some crazies turned my apartment into charcoal and I haven't got the cash for a hotel, take me in maybe?

No. She had her own life. One that I really hoped was going well, sincerely.

If only I had had the courage to call, things might have been different.

I find him in one of the shadowy corners of the Black Room, and he's drunk already, sweating out the stench of gin and pride and bad intentions. I should have left right then.

"Hey."

He recognizes me immediately. In another world, I might have been flattered, but really, remembering my face is no feat.

He says to me,

"Hey kid, you look like hell. Want a drink?"

Yeah.

I really do.

We sit for hours, talk about a lot of things I never was free to talk about with anyone else. We were on the same page about a lot of things, in a strange way, and it's good to talk to someone who doesn't scoff at every other sentence out of my mouth.

I drink shot after shot, and when I lick the bitter fire water off my lips I can taste the soot, the ashes of all my belongings on my tongue, and for some reason, I don't mind it. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe none of those things ever mattered to begin with. I lick my lips and I can taste the freedom on them. I have nothing to lose, no hindrances. I could do just about whatever the fuck I please from the point on. I have nothing.

I could do anything.

It's 1 am and we're plastered, stumbling out of the club arm in arm, trying to prop ourselves up on each other's shoulders. I'm laughing but I don't know what Damon said to be funny or if he said anything. I'm laughing so much that through that blissful numbness that comes with gin, I can still feel my ribs ache. Then he says,

"I want you to do me a favour."

And I say, to my new _best_ friend,

"Anything."

"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

My first thought, it must be a joke. It has to be a joke. Who wants to get beaten up? What a fucked up thing to ask for. He must be joking.

It's only a joke.

So I ask, in the most eloquent way possible,

"Are you **_fucking with me?"_**

But no. He's not. He asks again, dark eyes clear of the haze of drunkenness, lips curled up in a grin. And I have to ask him, **_why?_**

"Who wants to live in a world where everyone is always polite? Always biting their quick tongues and stuffing their feet in their mouths when they say something strange, it's ridiculous. It's a kind of insanity in it's own right. But I know there's a better kind, kid, and I want to find it. So," he straightens up, pulls off his thrift shop suit jacket, "Do me this favour. Put it all out there. Everyone who ever fucked you over, spilled their goddamn coffee on you, degraded you, made you feel helpless, worthless, unimportant. Hit me like I am all of those people. Let go. Just go crazy, kid."

In a weird way, his logic kind of makes sense.

So much pent up anger from trying so hard to be kind. So much aggression from being walked over constantly, ridiculed and emasculated. My problem isn't with Damon, it's with the world.

But right now, with that smug grin on his face, he is the world, and I've been doing favours for everyone for so long getting nothing in return, why not do this?

Here, everyone is a winner.

So I think of Bossman and his taunting, pretentious golden eyes. I think of my father. I think of the dean of my old school, and I think of that kid in 5th grade who smashed my head into a locker til I needed stitches, think of that scar and the way it prickles when I comb through my hair in the morning. I think of all the people I've ever loved, and realize I've lost each and every one of them, in one way or another.

Damon is all of these things for me right now, and I can be his enlightenment that he wants so fucking bad.

I think of my mother's face as she told me that I frightened her when I was hardly eight.

And suddenly I can feel flesh against my knuckles, then bone angrily fighting against my will, I can see Damon's head snap backward and for a moment I panic because I think I may have _just killed my only friend._

But he's laughing now. He straightens back up and smiles, front tooth chipped and blood seeping from the cracks between his incredibly straight teeth, red red blood. _**Red is an agitating colour,** _ I hear in the back of my head, and it takes all I've got not to punch him again, not because of him, but everything, _everyone_ else.

"Fuck, kid, you hit me right in the mouth!"

But I thought you wanted me to, Damon? Shit, I fucked it up I'm sorry-

The air is gone from my lungs. It was perfect, he says, and as a gasp for air, struggle to find the stuff that's all around me and keeps me alive, I just have to smile.

Yeah.

It was perfect.

Hit me again.

If only I had called Maka that night instead, none of this shit ever would have happened.

Then again, maybe it would have anyway. The problem started with me, and that's how it will probably end too.

This might be a little out of order.

Skip to the next time I see Maka, and I feel like my stomach has been removed, replaced by lead and doubt. She's at that bookstore, the one she gave me a receipt from with her number on it. A number I never had the courage to call. I can't remember making the decision to come here, but I am here, and so is she, and it's terrifying. I haven't slept in weeks, no peace for weeks, no fights or mayhem for weeks, and I hate it, hate her for the fact that simply being in her general vicinity makes me calmer. Not even destruction could make me as calm as she does by just existing and it's bullshit.

She spots me, and fuck it all, she smiles, smiles so wide and her eyes glitter in the diluted sunlight filtering through the thick pollution of this hellhole of a city, and I gotta wonder how a soul as good as this one finds themselves stuck in a world like this. What about transcendence?

Maybe that's why she's here. You go to this other place, then they send you back to a shithole so you can help all the blundering fucking idiots along in finding their ways.

And here, I thought I'd be the one to save her.

"Hey there, stranger," she says with a little smirk.

Help me, I've fallen for someone I've hardly spoken to and can't get up.

Oh, the humanity.

Oh, the idiocy.

Oh, the naivete.

I say hello, somehow without cringing away from her burning, clean gaze. I say hello and ask how she's been, and I know as soon as I ask that I fucked up, cause her eyes water though her lips turn up higher, and she lies to me for what I think is the first time, tells me she's been good. Great, yeah, she's been great.

Then my hand is somehow on her cheek, wiping away a stray tear, and she doesn't look scared like I think maybe she should.

_Don't let me drag you down with me._

"Do you want to grab some coffee?" My lips are traitorous, evil, cruel to this poor girl. I should have left right then, left her to cry it all out and get over it herself.

"Sure." And the smile reaches up to those gorgeous, pure eyes.

Fuck.


	3. One Lost Tooth and a Cup of Joe

Note: I don't own Soul Eater or Fight Club, I just love both to an excess. There's some violence in this chapter, and of course foul language. A special thank you to Marshofsleep and Ilarual for looking the chapter over and fixing it up for me. I really appreciate it! (Also, thank you to those of you have reviewed, or even just read this. It means the world.) Enjoy chapter three!

* * *

Jump back to that night where Damon knocked out one of my back molars and I chipped his teeth into a jagged grin, and we drank pisswarm beer on the sidewalk, knuckles raw and faces bleeding. Fuck the dentist and his useless job, the alcohol was our antiseptic; the coolness of cement acted as our ice packs. Sure, my best buddy punched me in the kidneys so many times that maybe I pissed blood in the morning, but none of it really mattered at that point. When you're all the way at the bottom of the barrel, it's reassuring to look up into the sky and know that the only way to go is up, up, up.

There was no such thing as idle chit-chat after that, Damon asked all the hard questions, and with the haze of booze, I didn't mind him sticking his nose into my business, asking me what I wanted to do with my life. A lot of the questions, I had no real answers to, but he was fine with that, said he appreciated the honesty and left it alone.

I didn't realize at the time, he was just analyzing me, the way Frank would, collecting ammunition for later. One way or another, Damon always got his answers.

But that night, we just stare up at the polluted sky, and I say,

"We should do this again sometime,"

And he smiles that jagged smile at me. I realize that I shaped him this way, my fists forever altering his face to have a wicked grin, and it's the most powerful I've ever felt in my whole pathetic excuse for a life.

"You did good, kid. I'm proud of you."

These are words I always wished for from my father, my brother, my teachers, God, _anyone._ It makes me sick how my heart catches in my throat and my eyes sting, all because another grown fucking man told me the words I've been wishing for all my life.

_Someone is proud of me.__The fact that I am alive **matters.**_

Hold me, please, I'm having a sentimental moment.

Hold, please, while I hug my inner child.

I feel fulfilled. How lovely.

I feel like I may vomit, I've swallowed too much blood, too much pride, too much anger, this is the cleansing process, time to let it out.

"Breathe, kid."

_I'm trying._

"You're alright."

_Am I?_

I'm not, I hurl into the drainage grate beside me nestled into the sidewalk, and Damon pats me on the back, congratulatory, like this was my right of passage, like my acceptance of how fucked up I am just got me into this super special club. I would be irritated, but I'm too curious, and a little too disgusted with the taste left in my mouth. Blood and bile and regret, sour fire on my tongue, melted copper coating my teeth, sandpaper in my throat, and in this state, I am most worthy of another's pride. I have to wonder, what does this say about me as a person?

Does it really matter?

I sleep that night the way children do. The especially young ones who know too little of the world for nightmares? That's how I slept, and it's the first time since the night Maka gave me her number, first time since that angel took a leap of faith and gave a demon with no name a way to summon her. Such a silly girl.

I wouldn't need her anymore if Damon and I kept up with these brawls. Sure, I might lose half my teeth, might chew through my lips and blacken my eyes, but at least I would have consistent peace.

The _real_ problem, was figuring out who was more reliable. Damon?

Or Maka.

I still haven't figured that one out yet.

* * *

I wake up, piss blood like I thought I would, but none of it really matters, I can keep it together through the work day, I can hide the fact that I'm missing a tooth, this won't affect my work ethic or charm or anything. I can pull it off, now that I've slept. Sleep is what I've been needing to get my head on straight all this time, fuck Frank for not giving me that, fuck Maka for bringing it to me so easily and then taking it away. As long as I have Damon, everything will be fine, I can handle anything, as long as he has my back.

Oh, forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

Forgive me, brother, I let a stranger in.

* * *

"Hey, no daydreaming during work hours, head out of the clouds." Yellow eyes flick nervously between my one black eye and the other, and Bossman looks like he might just pass out from the effort to not say anything about it. He snaps his fingers in my face, but I don't care, I know that he's only doing it to cover his compulsions, to cover a flaw he sees within himself and thinks I can't see. I do see. I feel sorry him. I feel superior to him.

I ask him, playing the part so well,

"What can I do for you Boss?"

And he says,

"There's this club I invested in that I need you to… ehm.. tidy up, so to speak. It's called The Viper Pit, and it will be the the most prosperous club in this whole city."

"Cute name," I tell him, and I see him almost look directly at my face, if only to glare, but he just can't bring himself to do it and I am elated.

"The money that went into starting this business isn't exactly...clean money. I want you to destroy the paper trail, if there is any. I don't need any of Maddie's shit falling on my shoulders. If she gets in trouble, there will be no record of her and I even speaking. Are we clear?"

Yes, sir, Bossman, sir. I'll get on it in a jiffy.

* * *

I get to the den, and this uppity bitch has yellow eyes too. I immediately don't like her. She holds her hand out like I ought to kiss it, stands straight, neck elongated oh so elegantly and wrapped in gold and jewels, says her full name, Madeline Gorgon, the queen, the God of her own little world, The Viper Pit. It's like there's a league of these people, the golden-eyed I'm-better-than-you clan, and I think maybe that's how they get inaugurated. Gold eyes, equals elite, equals too good to make eye contact with the likes of me.

I can see her bite her tongue when I first walk into the place, but I dunno why. I introduce myself with the name on my ID, and she looks shocked but hell, I'm not that surprised, it's a weird name I guess and I never really was a fan of it anyway.

We get done with the pleasantries fast, and she's asking about my black eye and I'm asking about this black hole she calls a business and each word gets more venomous as it slips off her forked tongue. Fitting, for a place... no, a she-beast like this, I think to myself as I watch her pupils dilate and her fangs bare themselves.

These are the kind of people I work best with though, no matter how much I hate it. There's a certain kind of endearing quality to the honesty of scum. This is my element, these are my people, this is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time. Tick tock says the clock but I say nothing back. Seconds, hours, years I've wasted, and what have I got to show for it?

Scars, and regret. But the clock keeps ticking, and I've got time, until I don't anymore, I've got all the time in the fucking world. Maybe I can make something useful out of it.

"First time here?"

"Yeah, it is. Probably my last too."

"Don't be so coy, dear, I know this is exactly the kind of place where you belong."

"You don't have to sell me on it, my Bossman is already in your back pocket, Madeline, spare me the effort, I'm gonna go home now and forget that you and this God-awful place exist. We clear?"

And she smiles, sickly sweet, canine teeth buried in her lip.

"As a bell, darling."

Fucking hang me by my necktie, I am no one's darling or dear or boy.

I am my own person.

_I swear, I am._

Bossman calls, and I excuse myself so I can pick up, and I realize that no.

I am not.

* * *

Now skip back to coffee with Maka and her baggage, Maka and all her issues I never knew angels could have. Papa is a man-whore, Mama never cared, and the only time she ever saw them together was when they had verbal battles. When they were apart, they would do things that no twelve year old should ever have to know about and then ask Maka, please, don't say anything, this is our secret, okay?

She gets this wild look in her eyes after she says that, and is quick to tell me, no, it's not what you think, they didn't hurt me personally, just each other, I swear!

But I have to ask, now.

"You know, by hurting each other, they were really hurting you. You do know that, right? You're not wrong to feel like shit. It's their faults."

She gets so defensive so fast, and it makes me angry.

But not at her.

At the dumbfucks she has to call her makers. Her "Family" is the reason for the tears I had to wipe from her face and I already fucking hate them.

All this anger.

All this aggression.

All for two people I've never met.

Or maybe I'm just way overdue for a fight. The Viper Pit has been going through remodeling, and we've had nowhere to hold meetings. Maybe after I say goodbye to the angel, I can go be the demon I am, crush someone's face beyond recognition and embrace them in mutual thanks when it's all done.

This is my life, and it's ending, one measly, angst ridden, nano-fucking-second at a time.

Then she asks me,

"Hey, are you okay?"

And I wish I could cry and speak with such honesty the way she does, but I can't, I never could, so I say,

"Yeah, I'm fine."

She doesn't believe me. I think maybe I should be offended.

Then again, I don't believe me either. Why should she?


	4. A Date

Note: I do not own Soul Eater or Fight Club. Thank you Marshofsleep and Professor Maka for looking this over for me, and thank you to all the people who have been encouraging in my writing process. It makes all the difference in the world.(Also, a thank you to some very kind guest reviewers, your words made me happy). This chapter is vaguely nsfw. Enjoy!

* * *

We wasted a day at that shitty coffee shop where everyone knew me by a different name, and every time someone said hello to me using another variation, she giggled into her tiny, strong hands. It might have pissed me off had it been anyone but her.

That night I sleep and dream of her. She is walking with me along the surface of that black pool, her fingers laced in mine, smiling brightly in a place without light. She glows like an other-worldly being. I don't think of the hand that usually reaches through the surface, and it never appears.

When I wake, Damon is nowhere to be found, but I can't find it within myself to actually give a shit. Maka's number is still inked into the inside of my wrist, where she said she knew I wouldn't lose it, and she's right, it's just as clear today as it was when she wrote it there under our cute little table at that cute little coffee shop. I already know the number by heart, but her writing on my skin makes me feel stronger, braver, like I can do anything.

I have _something_, and with it, I could do _anything._

I wait until 2 pm, and still no sign of Damon. I call her and she picks up after one ring, one ring just like a halo, one ring like she was awaiting my call.

"Hey." She knows it's me when she picks up, I can hear the smile in her voice. She _has_ been waiting for me.

"Hey. Want to hang out?" I sound like I'm fucking 14 again but she says yes so I don't care. She tells me to come over in an hour and she'll be ready. I'm so excited that I forget to ask for her address and have to call back. It's embarrassing, but the sound of her sweet voice is worth it.

I go to a gym to shower, cause the water barely trickles at the house on 42nd street where Damon took me in. For all my weeks of not giving a shit, finally looking in a mirror is painful. My teeth are all broken up and there's scarring on my cheekbones and eyebrows, dark circles under my eyes a permanent fixture on my face. I have to wonder, what is a girl like her doing wasting time with a guy like me?

Maybe she's even more fucked up than I am, I just can't see it on her the way others can see it on me.

As I study the layers of scars, Damon creeps up behind me, eyes glittering obsidian, his pupils are so wide, his dark hair cropped short and his modesty forgotten. I cover my eyes like a child, because there are plenty of things I want to see in this world, but my roommate's dick is not one of them.

"Need to fix your makeup before your date, Nancy?" He quips, like he's only joking, but when he ruffles my hair I can feel his fingernails against my scalp, can hear his broken teeth crack as they grind together. He just misses that old scar from grade school when he fists his hand in my hair. Good.

There are some things he doesn't have to know.

"Want me to braid your hair?" I want to collapse his nasal passages, make him swallow his jagged teeth and tear up his throat.

I want him to suffer.

A thrust of my palm in an upward motion, and I would be free of him.

My hands stay at my sides. I'm a coward and a monster all at once. Who knew that was even an option?

How did he know about Maka? How did he know I'd be here?

"You're a predictable little bastard, you know."

A bastard. Yes. You're right. A boy grown with no real father figure, this is what I am, but then, what does that make you, Damon?

My split lips remain sealed.

"So what's your plan, Romeo? Gonna find a nice back alley and have her against the wall? Such a romantic."

I want to breathe smoke.

"Sure she'll have you, kid? You're not looking too hot. Then again, she's not the cream of the crop eith-"

**_"Enough."_**

I turn to say it to his face, but he's already left me. Usually there would be some sort of sense of loss, but no, I'm glad, happy that he's not with me now. She's better than what he's reduced her to, better than he could ever fucking hope to be. Fuck him and his bullshit, he's just jealous. God forbid he doesn't have all my attention at all times, suddenly the world is ending.

* * *

Brushing my teeth is one of the most painful events of my day, but that's alright, at least I still

have some left. I can smile with my mouth closed. I can do it, for her.

Covering up the scars and dark circles would be useless, so they stay. She's already seen them in the light of day, and she still picked up when I called, still said yes when i asked her out like an inexperienced schoolboy. All things considered, maybe that's exactly what I am at heart.

Nah.

Definitely still a monster.

I just hope she notices soon and is smart enough to run.

She told me she lives in apartment 564 on Gallows Ave., in an old building that looks like it should have collapsed on its own years ago. She's not hard to find, and her description even made me smile to myself, jagged teeth, cracked lips and all. I buy some chapstick from the corner store before I see her, and normally I would feel like an idiot, but I know I'd feel worse if I were to start bleeding from the mouth while trying to have a decent conversation with her.

She likes to wear a lot of white, too. I haven't got the cash to replace a nice shirt if I bleed on it accidentally.

Then again, who says I'll even get close enough to breathe the same air? I'm not entitled to her personal space.

I knock on her door with the vague imprint of the room number left behind in filth, wipe my knuckles on my jeans and wait for a few seconds, and she's already out the door, walking in front of me, talking fast and smiling so much it makes _my_ cheeks sore.

I made no plans, but she says she isn't a fan of plans anymore anyway, so we end up at the park, my schoolboy crush bringing us back in time. Except when I was in school it was boarding school for boys, and contrary to popular belief at work, the only cock I care to touch is my own. Truthfully, I'm not even that fond of that.

Her hands are far softer.

I know because her fingers are laced with mine and my face is hot and this is all starting to get a _little_ ridiculous.

We sit under a tree and watch as the sun sets, her fingertips tracing along my palm as she talks up into my ear softly, and she's beautiful. The sunset's light doesn't do her justice, but really, no light ever could; she's the kind of pretty that mends bones and hearts.

Or maybe I'm crazy and just need someone to save me and she seems like the best candidate so I project these ideals onto her unfairly.

She nestles into my chest, ear over my heart, and I think, nah, she's probably even better than I give her credit for.

What a scary thought.

I wish I could be good the way she is.

Then this little fuckhead who's hardly a fifth my age calls me a monster, and I see the rage boil in her eyes. Good. I'm glad to know she isn't immune to everything.

And even happier that she gets angry in my defense.

She asks me if we can leave, because adults don't argue with little kids over things they don't understand.

"You're very handsome," she tells me with a blush, "but even if you weren't it wouldn't matter. It's only the soul that matters."

Something I've told myself countless times in countless situations, but it's only from her lips that it actually starts to sound like the truth.

She's stopped asking my name, and I wonder if this is her clever little way of telling me she knows, a play on words for her fool.

Do I belong to her?

Is it wrong to hope?

Is it twisted to think that being a possession of hers is more honorable than anything I've done in my wasted life?

Twisted, maybe.

Unrealistic?

Not even a little.

I take her under the railroad tracks, and through them we watch the moon, dew covered grass sticking to our backs and fingers intertwined. Out this far, the lights from the city and the thick air of humanity isn't present to taint the sky, and I can tell from the way her pulse in her palm speeds up, she notices.

"You're quiet."

"Then you're not listening hard enough."

This gets her attention, just like I knew it would. I said it to be selfish. Her eyes on me make me feel invincible, or at least, not like a useless piece of shit.

And to think, a few weeks from this point, I'll hardly even remember this feeling.

But for the moment? I'll just revel in it.

* * *

In some way, we end up at the Viper Pit, done with its remodeling and smelling vaguely of wet paint and shame. Maybe at some point losing so much time and finding myself in a place like this would concern me, but at the moment, I just can't find it within me to care.

She rubs herself against me so hard, I think I might pass out from the way the blood drains from my brain faster than I thought possible. Her nails scrape along my neck as she leans into me, arching her back in ways I didn't know anyone could be capable of, ass pressed against me. I feel the way the bass thumps through the floors, up through our feet and into our chests, vibrating bones and making our blood buzz. Or maybe it's just me.

But she looks up at me over one of her shoulders, looks directly into my eyes and **_grinds._ **All I can think is her name, everything is her and her name and her hips and her eyes, and I wonder again why she doesn't ask me my name anymore but it doesn't matter, she's beautiful and wonderful and I don't even care what my name is. It's Maka, Maka, Maka, this is what matters now, none of the shit Bossman throws at me, not fight club, not Damon, none of it, just her and this.

She faces me, thigh rubbing against my dick, her fingers combing through my hair, and I see it on her face when she finds that nasty, old, bitter scar I got from that nasty, young, bitter boy. Realizing now how similar he and I are, I want to run from her, run from her gaze and her touch and her affection.

But her fingers tighten in my hair, eyebrows furrowed in a way that makes me uncomfortable, she's scrutinizing me, she must be finding flaws, all of them, she can see them all.

Then her lips are at my ear.

"It was never your fault, you know."

Oh, but you're wrong, Maka Albarn, you're so wrong and I just wish I knew how to tell you that. I wish I could remember how to say _no_.

I wake up in my bed, alone, but I dreamed of her, I remember the way she felt around me, the way it felt inside her and the way her mouth felt against mine, so gentle and kind.

I can't tell what's real anymore.


	5. Lost

Note: A big thank you to Marshofsleep and ProfessorMaka for being excellent betas. Also, a thank you to all the supportive friends I have, and a thank you to those of you who have been following this story and reviewing. You make it worth the effort. As always, I own nothing. Rated M due to mature content, some violence, sexual content, and drug use. I think I covered all the bases. Enjoy!

* * *

Skip ahead just for a minute, to Damon holding a razor sharp farming sickle against my throat.

Here with him at the tippy top of this Godforsaken city, it's a little hard to breathe, the air thinner and the breaths bigger. I'm afraid one breath a bit too big will open an artery. I want him gone, but I won't destroy myself to make it happen. There's a better reason to be alive now. I have promises to keep and messes to clean.

"Getting exciting now," he says, checking his century old timepiece out of the corner of his eye, blade still pressed against my throat.

I think of floating in the sea of black alone, and now I'm glad, glad Maka got out of this place to one where I'm not. She ran. She didn't let me drag her down with me and I'm so thankful.

My eyelashes are saturated with my own blood and fear for this demon I've created; I never should have allowed it to get this far. I can hardly see him, but he's right here, veins almost black they look so stark against his skin.

Sweat drips from Damon's red nose, rubbed so raw, and pools on my upper lip; he's so close, his eyes dark, dark, dark, and I'm not floating anymore, I'm drowning, but at least she isn't with me.

There are riots in the streets and the city burns, him staring down idly like Nero as Rome fell to its ashen knees and wept molten flesh, lives, and incomplete thoughts through the streets. In times of drought, you can drink your own urine.

It's sterile.

I know this because Damon knows this and he thinks it's funny to interrupt my thoughts before I can finish them.

"It was all for you, you know," he says, and I feel so sick, sick in more ways than I can count, because somewhere deep within me I actually believe his words. We were such good friends, almost better than brothers could be.

Almost.

Funny, how quickly things can change.

* * *

Now go back to me waking up alone, feeling rested and content and full of dread all at once. She's not in my bed and she's not in my kitchen and the bathroom is empty, the only exception being a few used condoms left in the toilet, and I'm starting to feel ill because I don't remember all of those. If I only dreamed of her, but these are here, then where did they come from?

I can hear her giggling. It's from the direction of Damon's room.

Folks, we have just lost cabin pressure.

Oh, Damon, surely you wouldn't.

Oh, Damon, _surely_ you couldn't.

But you have.

I can feel the betrayal in my marrow. I think back to our first fight, the beer, all the fights after that, the freedom and elation that we shared, and surely, I should not let this get to me. I knew long ago that I wasn't worth her attention, and somehow I allowed myself to hope.

Why?

Hope never did me any good before. It does me no good now.

She's moaning and I can taste it in my mouth, feel it reverberate in my veins but she's with him, she unravels for him and I am sick. I need to stop listening.

I need to leave. Just until she's gone.

And once again, Damon is with me, shoving me out of the way so he can attempt to relieve himself, paying no mind to the way it splashes back off the latex island in the porcelain bowl.

"Long night?" He asks me.

_I want him to suffer._

"I should be asking you that."

"She's one hell of a woman I gotta say. I shouldn't have sold her so short! She gives head that's out of this world."

Spatter the walls with my brains, suffocate me, drown me in the toilet bowl, anything other than this would be mercy.

"Well you know that already though kid, you fucked her."

"No."

This takes him by surprise.

"No?"

"I said no."

"You want to?"

I am in my pool of black, I am calm, I am zen.

"No."

So many lies, what a web I've woven. I'm starting to lose track.

My pool of black is Damon now; I know I can't escape him but at least I remember how to swim.

He goes back to his room, and I go to the kitchen, and I can still hear them going at it, round number whatever still going strong.

The phone rings and I answer. I know that Damon is otherwise occupied.

It goes eerily quiet the moment the phone is off the hook. At least they still remember some common courtesy.

"Hello, this is detective Albarn speaking. I had a few questions about a club you've been frequenting."

Oh right, Maka's father is a detective, how could I forget. Too lovestruck to remember the details. Figures it would come back to fuck me in the ass.

* * *

Jump back to a few weeks ago, when Damon sweet talks Madeline into letting us use the basement of her club to hold fights. The whole club was used as an office of sorts anyway. Prostitution and drugs, what was a little consensual violence in the basement?

Phrasing it that way, it starts to sound like a kinky BDSM party.

There were no whips and chains. I swear.

There were a lot of drugs though. That was Damon's twisted idea. He said, to really find that power within yourself, to really let go, to go nuts and set free that aggression within you, you have to peel away all those layers of learned politeness and complacency. I argued that it was something that could be easily learned. He argued that shortcuts are okay sometimes.

With the dull roaring all around you, it's hard to make well informed and logical decisions. And so I took whatever he offered.

I won every fight I fought. I was God, if only for a moment, holding someone's life in the palms of my bloodied hands, and when they would finally surrender, say enough, I would wipe my hands dry on my pants and reach down to help them to their feet. This, was our enlightenment. This, was our freedom. Inhibitions gone, down to the core we are all just looking to destroy something, to alter something for better or worse. Down at our cores, we all have our own agendas. I just want to be the best at something, anything, I just want to be considered the greatest, even if it's at something as brutal as beating the fuck out of someone.

The first fight I lost was to some guy with bright blue hair and a God complex bigger than I'd ever witnessed before. He would have killed me. I know it, cause I know what that look he got in his eyes meant. I could see it, he wanted to obliterate me. He wanted to **_win._ **It took some tall, pretty, dark haired woman forcing her way into the middle of the the room and stopping him to save me.

It was kind of beautiful, really. To see the humanity return to his eyes the moment he realized that this woman said it was time to stop. And in that moment, I'm just thinking, thinking about the things Damon says and if maybe, he's not right all the time. Maybe it's okay to have some humanity within us. Maybe we're stronger without it, but not necessarily better.

Then I think of that rush that comes with the feeling of letting go. Poor guy should have seen it through.

Then, he would have been a **_real_** God.

Strangely enough, the guy turns out to be one of the best hearts I ever meet. Genuine, ready to call you on your bullshit, loud and impulsive but willing to acknowledge when he fucks up. A real gem of a human being, if not annoying as fuckall.

* * *

Jump to a few months later, when Damon sends him out to do 'Homework' and he comes back with a hole in his stomach and a slash across the tattoo of a star on his arm, and he's bleeding all over the kitchen table, and the dark haired woman who saved my life in the first fight I lost is trying to staunch the wound. All the panicked voices swirl around me, and I just need to be alone, I need the quiet, I need to be away from them so I get away.

Up on the roof, it's a lot more peaceful.

I lose track of time. Somehow, Maka finds me. I ask her how, I ask her why she didn't stay away from this place like I told her to, and she just sighs, wiping the blood off her a hands on her pretty white dress, and tells me that she heard through the grapevine that her brother was hurt and her boyfriend had had a mental breakdown. I feel bad now, for not checking on Damon to see if he was okay. I just assumed he was. Then I think about her words more and realize something awful.

"That guy in the kitchen bleeding out… He's your brother.."

And she sighs, again, more tired this time than before.

"Not biologically. We've known each other..well. A long time now. I can't call an ambulance, can I?"

"No."

I almost mention that it would make Damon angry and probably get him in a lot of trouble, but I remember the promise I made him. My oath to never mention him is getting harder to keep.

"Okay," she says. "Star is strong and Tsubaki is trained in the medical field. He'll be okay."

She's just so calm about it all, like she knew when she first met me that I would somehow drag her and all she loves through the mud, and it makes me want to scream. She and Damon never would have met if not for me. Damon's project would never have taken flight if not for my help. Everything has been leading up to this breaking point and it takes me by such surprise, but not her.

She knew from the start where she would end up if she ever spoke to me.

And yet, here she is.

Not for very long, though. Everyone has their limits. Even angels know when to give up.

Right?


	6. Trip and Fall

AN: OKAY it's been a good long while, but I think I may possibly have the flow back. I hope you guys enjoy! Remember, this is rated M for a reason. There will be violence in this chapter, proceed no further if this disturbs you. I'd like to thank Marshofsleep, Professor Maka, and Lunar Resonance for looking this over. They are wonderful betas and i truly appreciate the tweaking they've done and the perspective they provide. As always, I own nothing but my own ideas and thoughts.

Okay, onward!

* * *

It's Monday, after my hijacked date, I'm lost in my thoughts again, and Bossman's matching paintings aren't perfectly aligned so I know from the start, this day will be shit. My head is throbbing and everything is dull static, all I can think of is demolishing Damon's smug face.

Our first fight had been nothing personal.

It was just symbolic.

It was purifying.

It was therapy.

Now, it's extremely personal, it's rage, it's all for him.

I shouldn't let it be that way. I should swallow my pride and accept rejection, I'm no stranger to it anyway. If I just get over it, at least I'll still have Damon, for what it's worth.

Which seems to be less and less as I get to know him better.

I'm starting to wonder if I would be better off alone.

"No lingering problems with Madeline and her troupe of hoodlums I assume?"

I can taste blood in my mouth, I bite my tongue so hard.

"No problems at all Boss. You're free of her."

Though, it would be a fucking hoot to watch Maka's dad tackle Bossman over and cuff him. The idea of it is enough to make me feel a little better.

Just a little.

* * *

For weeks now, Damon has been home growing peyote. The soil on the outskirts of our lovely desert city is perfect for a prosperous life for these adorable little bastardly plants.

I of course was the guinea pig when he had to test the mescaline he would extract.

I read somewhere once about the affects of it, that they might be scattered or they could be repetitive. Colours would be vibrant and patterns of shapes may occur. Never panic, it said. Just enjoy it for what it is and take the ride.

Always, it's checkerboard patterns, consuming black and bloody red, then pinstripes across my vision.

Then, always, green eyes. There's fiery blue that dances across pale white and vibrant gold. I know that it's her, or some form of her when these things happen. Maybe I'm seeing her soul, the little fragments of her she leaves behind in every place she goes. The earth she stands upon must be honored. It remembers the important events, like her little smiles beneath the club lights, and the way her skin glistened hypnotically and her voice rang out for me in my dream.

I can't see my bed without thinking of her.

I can't hear a train pass or watch the moon move across the sky without hearing echoes of her contagious laughter.

It's all too vivid with the mescaline, the volume turned up and my imagination overactive. The first time I test that starter batch, I can see the vague outlines of her in my arms as we sway along the checkered tiles, licked by blue flickering lights and dipped in black.

I can't see her clearly, but I can _feel_ her beauty.

Hours go by, and I'm stuck there in my head, with ghost touches and phantom glimpses of her.

I come to, and he asks,

"What was it like?"

I tell the truth.

"Like anything was possible."

And he says,

"Perfect. Because anything is, once you let go."

I'm getting closer and closer to believing him.

* * *

Skip to the day she comes around and Damon is out doing some errands.

Maka, with her pretty pink blowjob lips, doe eyed girl, a hand on my dick and a vice grip on my heart, she kisses the back of my neck and tells me not to worry, she'll be out of my hair soon.

She flicks her tongue out, like punctuation, and it takes all I have not to cringe.

She tells me she loves me and I want to run, run, run, because Damon, Damon, Damon, these words are meant for him and I'm just not sane enough to play these stupid games.

Maka, Maka, please just go.

Please, leave me the fuck alone.

Those childhood limericks corrupted with my words, my hate and love and admiration and disgust for this pretty little thing that invades my home, and heart, and mind, and soul.

She makes my thoughts unintelligible even for me

Her canine teeth are sharp and I wish I didn't know how it feels to have them drag across my skin, but I do.

"I can take care of that before I go, if you want...?"

She's talking about how I'm half hard and shivering despite myself. Damon, save me from this girl. Please.

But I can't talk to her about him. How convenient.

To deny her would be sacrilege. To defy him would be the same. What's a poor, confused boy to do?

I tell her to leave. She looks so hurt and I just don't understand.

_Why?_

She's in the wrong, not me. It's like Damon no longer exists the moment they part.

It's wrong, so wrong, but last week's homework was to dose Starbucks patrons with massive amounts of LSD. Who am I to ride in on the Moral High Horse?

Besides. Damon said not to mention him.

"I just can't win with you," she tells me, and I want to say, "Define 'win' Maka," but I don't. I feel defeated, but was she battling me to begin with? Since when was I worth the effort?

She reaches past me to the ash tray, plucking out a half-smoked cigarette Damon left behind, smoke somehow still curling from the end, puts it to her lips and inhales, deep.

Maka isn't a smoker.

Or at least, she never was before.

The Inner Child just has to point it out; Indirect kiss!

The Inner Child is so busy pouting that I can't react fast enough.

She grabs my face and I can feel the heat from the glowing ember of her recycled soldier of death.

She seals her mouth over mine and breathes into me.

It burns.

I cough and choke and scrub at my lips, I just want that taste gone, want it purged.

She looks at me like I'm insane and maybe I am.

The cigarette is abandoned on the cracked tile of the kitchen and she's gone and I can still taste her under all that ash and nicotine.

She tastes familiar and it scares me.

* * *

Damon is here now, fresh cigarette in his grinning, chipped teeth. My lungs still burn.

"She a gymnast?"

I feel ill. Please, let me be anywhere but here.

I tell him I don't know. I don't know much about her and I don't want to. She's made me into a dishonest man. I'm not as sorry as I hoped I would be.

"Good, she'd bring you nothing but trouble anyway."

Like he fucking knows everything. How is an ego of that caliber born? I'll be the last to know.

The problem is, Damon really does know a lot. Most of the time, it's hard not to listen.

* * *

That night, I'm off my game, off kilter, off thinking about Maka, and this is why my tongue is overflowing from my mouth, I'm drowning in my own blood, but through all the white noise, I hear Damon say so clearly to me,

"Let go. Go crazy. _Tear him apart. _"

Your wish is my command.

The kid has such a soft face, good structure, straight teeth, eyes the kind of layered cyan that makes girls and boys and anyone on fucking earth swoon.

All along his ears are metal hoops, and something in me _shifts. _

Now all I wanna do is destroy. Destroy all this boy-man has going for him. Destroy his face and his pride, beat him so badly that no one can see those pretty blue eyes of his, that he can't even see out of them..

Angel Dust. That's what gets doled out before one of these things. Ironic.

I feel like a demon.

I feel four rings of smooth, cool steel slip over my index finger, I hear a pitiful little shout of "No! Please!" and I feel myself pulling, tearing, fist twisting and clenching as the cries get louder. My lips turn up, and I yank away from pretty-boy, his pretty jewelry coming with me. He ducks down, clutching his ear, and my knee comes up to greet him.

I feel bone crunch, but it's not my bones, and I can do anything, If I just let go I can do _anything._

His face is even softer than it looks, I know for a fact my knuckles will be just fine when this fight is done. I'm not drowning anymore, no, not anymore, pretty-boy is drowning and I'm gonna hold him under.

It's Damon who stops the fight. Things come into focus and I can feel the kid laying limp beneath me, choking and spluttering weakly on his blood.

This is what I do. Creation was never an option..

Destruction suits me far better.

Damon pats me on the back.

"You did good kid." Then to the others, "Get that boy to a hospital."

I glance back at him, the boy, my finest work, my masterpiece, and his face in unrecognizable, his ear deformed and bleeding, and fuck it, I don't feel bad, I don't even feel a little remorse. That kinda scares me.

I'm gonna wait for it to come. My remorse, I mean.

But I'm not all that sure it will.

* * *

Apparently, the boy's name is Hero, or Hiro? I heard Hieronymus once, a hushed voice in the shadowy corners or the basement. I don't fucking know, names don't matter much in the scheme of things, but fuck, it took all I had not to laugh at the irony. Doesn't look like any kind of hero I've heard of.

It's weeks after that night before he can see out of those swollen, bulbous eyes, all shades of blue and violet and a sick kind of yellow that put the sky at dawn to shame. I'd paint my walls with the colour of his pain. Maybe I'll take him with me to Home Depot and I can pick matching colour palettes. A bonding experience between art and his creator, how poetic.

I don't think my remorse is gonna be making an appearance. I mean c'mon.

The dude was _asking_ for it.

He stands ramrod straight whenever I walk by him, or even get close to him, he calls me 'Sir' and it makes me want to hit him again. I'm not worthy of the title.

He has a lisp from biting through his tongue that night, and I have to wonder if, maybe, just maybe, that title he gave me suites me just fine.

Next time Maka sees me, she gives me a strange look, asks what's with the split eyebrow and raw knuckles.

I just smile, my lips sealed tight, and try to think of a way to distract her.


End file.
